


stranger things (have been taken too far)

by Spooks (agonizer)



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: M/M, Post-Season/Series 02
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-10
Updated: 2019-06-27
Packaged: 2019-07-29 06:33:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16258646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agonizer/pseuds/Spooks
Summary: It’s weird, Steve thinks, how they always pretend like this isnormal. Like there are any other two boys in their school who behave like this, like Billy pushes into anyone else’s personal space this way and doesn’t let go, like a dog with a bone.Steve doesn’t have anything to base his assumption on, but he’s pretty sure Billy doesn’t do this to anyoneelse.





	1. Chapter 1

Scoops Ahoy is not the world’s worst place to work, Steve supposes. 

Not that he has any frame of reference, mind. His parents have never made him work the summer breaks, because why would they? Steve never needed the spare cash, and if his parents had any ideas about him building character, well. Standing behind a counter hadn’t been it.

Fighting demodogs and signing government non-disclosure agreements hadn’t been it, either, but…

Anyway. It’s different, now. 

Different, now, because this isn’t his summer break, because he’s done with high school. Different, now, because all his college applications keep coming back rejections. Different, now, because Steve gets jittery when he stands still, when he doesn’t have something to focus on. 

Different, now, because he jumps at shadows when he’s by himself for too long.

So Steve spends forty hours a week at Scoops Ahoy, under the too bright lights of the mall, serving ice cream to kids and too many of his old class mates, pretends he doesn’t want to die every time someone comes past that he knows— because this is real life, now, this isn’t _high school_ , and that he was _King Steve_ once doesn’t matter anymore, it _shouldn’t_ , but it’s not like he can’t hear his old class mates chatter and giggle when they walk past.

Scoops Ahoy is not the world’s worst place to work, Steve supposes, but it sure makes him want to die, just a little. 

But here he is, every day, in his stupid little sailor uniform. Assistant manager—through no doing of his own, but the facts that he’s one of the only two employees who doesn’t still go to school halftime and, between those two employees, is the only one who _doesn’t_ smoke in the backroom have propelled him to that incredible position no matter how dead behind the eyes he looks, standing behind that counter. 

And that is very, very dead inside. 

Next to him, Robin taps her too long nails on the counter, her eyes glued to the clock in the middle of the mall that they can only just so spot from inside the store. With every tack-tack-tack-tack of her nails, Steve wants a little more to ram an ice cream cone into his eye, but, because he’s a reasonable man, he tells himself, he doesn’t.

The clock strikes seven, and Robin pops her bubblegum next to him. “All right, that’s it. I’m outtie,” she tells him, already pulling the stupid hat off her head and tossing it onto the counter behind him, and wastes no time walking around the counter and out of this place. “See ya tomorrow, Stevie.”

“Same bat time, same bat channel,” Steve grimaces, but nods as she flashes him a peace sign and vanishes out of sight.

Steve takes the late shift, closing shift, more often than not—he doesn’t sleep too well anymore these days, so he’s happier coming in late, and Robin’s happy to leave early, because apparently at least one of them has a social life and plans at night.

Resting both his elbows on the counter, Steve hangs his head between his shoulders. Three more hours, fifty-seven minutes to go until closing. 

Steve wipes down the counter, the little glass cases. Three more hours, forty two minutes to go. With a sigh, he returns to his spot behind the counter, starts absently sorting the little plastic spoons they give out by color. It’s not like he has anything _better_ to do.

“Hey! Hey, stop!”

The sound of shouting down the concourse pulls Steve from his reverie; he snaps his head up just in time to see Billy _fucking_ Hargrove bounding towards him, and before he can make proper heads or tails of the situation, Billy aims straight for him and leaps over the goddamn Scoops Ahoy counter.

Steve only just jumps out of the way—the container holding all their multi-colored little plastic spoons goes flying as Billy slides across the counter, clatters noisily to the floor with him.

“What the _fuck_ —?”

Down on the floor, Billy flattens his back to the counter, legs drawn up to his chest, pressed as tightly as possible to the counter, and Steve _wants_ to say more about it, but Billy clamps one hand, hard, around his calf and levels him with a look that makes him weigh his options real quick, and he gets it, when two mall security guards come running into the store not ten seconds later. 

Instead of looking down at the asshole hunkering behind his counter for another second, Steve flashes the two mall cops his most painted on smile. “Ahoy, what can I get you two sailors?” He dies a little more on the inside, and he could swear he can _feel_ Billy laughing at him, even though he isn’t making a single sound.

“Did you see a boy run past here? About your height, blond, curly?” Pudge Cop asks, a little breathlessly— Steve remembers him, remembers the last time he had seen him run was when he had closed the door to the store five minutes early, and Pudge Cop had arrived in a weird half-jog, puffy-faced, to lecture Steve that he absolutely couldn’t do that when Steve just wanted to go _home_ on time for once. 

Steve hasn’t warmed up to him since. 

“No, I don’t think so,” Steve says, Billy’s hand a vice around his calf, and he keeps his eyes trained on the security guard as he leans casually on the counter on both elbows, “There’s been a lot of people coming through. You mean right now?”

Pudge Cop nods, while the other mall cop has already headed out to stare down the walkway of the mall. 

“No, I haven’t seen anyone running,” Steve reiterates, as bored as he can manage, and the guard nods and tells him to have a good day before they finally both leave. 

Steve waits for them to disappear from view and counts from ten down to one in his head, before he straightens up and looks down at Billy, still cowering on the floor, but at least his grip has loosened—when he catches Steve looking, pointedly, he jerks his whole hand back, as if he’s forgotten it was on his leg in the first place.

“What the fuck, Hargrove?” 

Billy stays quiet for another few seconds, making sure the mall cops are well and truly gone, before he unfurls a little, legs kicked out in front of him, shoulders sagging with released tension. He smacks his lips, makes a show of raking his gaze from Steve’s ankles up to his hips and back again, then grins up at Steve, wide and wolfish. “I just came for the view. Is this what King Steve’s up to these days? I had no idea.”

( _Of course_ Billy has to have known that Steve works at Scoops Ahoy, because if he hasn’t seen him himself, Steve is willing to bet that Tommy or Carol or _someone_ told him, gleefully, probably, because none of them are growing up, apparently, because none of them really know what to do with this weird, post-high school limbo.)

The uniform shorts are _short_ , Steve knows, but he’s never felt _naked_ in them before. He certainly does now. “Don’t call me that,” he tells him, automatically, and crosses his arms across his chest.

Billy hums thoughtfully, and makes no move to stand, instead he cocks his head to the side and keeps looking at him with that same grin, that same challenge. “My bad. Sailor Steve, is it, now?”

Steve rolls his eyes so hard it might hurt, but doesn’t take the bait. “What are you doing here?” He asks, instead.

Billy shrugs, laves his tongue over his lower lip. “Got involved in a bit of a lovers’ spat down in the food court.” And yeah, Steve can imagine exactly how that went: Billy, swagger personified, hitting on someone with an entirely unamused boyfriend. It plays out very vividly in his mind, his imagination aided by the fading bruise on Billy’s jaw, even though it’s too old to be from today. 

Steve figures this is what Billy has been up to since graduation. 

“Well, security’s gone. Feel free to get the fuck out of my hair any minute now, Hargrove,” he tells him, coldly, pretends he isn’t irked by the fact that Billy hasn’t so much as made a move to get off the floor.

“Don’t act even dumber than you look, Harrington. They’re still gonna be looking for me, I’m not chancing it.” 

Steve wonders, not for the first time in Billy’s presence, what sins he must have committed in his past life to deserve any of this. They haven’t really spoken, not since last November, not since the plate to his head—Billy’s been cordial, or what passes for cordial with Billy, which is apparently sneers and acknowledging nods, when Steve runs into him when they’re both dropping off kids at the arcade, and he has downright avoided him in the halls for a few weeks while the bruises on his face were still fresh, blues and purples and newly formed scars.

After, even the usual bravado, the hair pulling, hasn’t felt quite _right_.

Steve hasn’t questioned it. The blessings in his life have become so few, he can count them on one hand now. 

“I need a smoke,” Billy says, apropos of nothing—probably just annoyed Steve hasn’t paid him any more attention.

“I’ll be happy to show you the exit, Hargrove,” he gives back, unimpressed, but Billy just grins up at him.

“You got a backroom, right?”

They _do_. They obviously do, because sprawled out on the floor as he is, Billy’s feet are just about kicking the door open. This isn’t an argument Steve is going to win, and they both know it, so after a few long moments of a staring contest, he pushes the door open with one hand. “You fucking owe me, Hargrove.”

Billy grins, wide and smug, and gets off the floor just so he can leisurely amble into the storage room.

With a roll of his eyes, Steve follows, careful to keep the door ajar.

The backroom—the one without any smoke alarms, because who cares what happens to employees, it’s not like they’re _people_ —is barely big enough for one person to move around in, let alone two, between the two freezers in it and boxes with ice cream cones and plastic spoons and napkins bottom to top to the point half of the lights don’t reach the floor, and the room stays perpetually dim.

Steve’s acutely aware of how tight this place suddenly feels, but he’s _also_ not going to leave Billy unsupervised around their merchandise. “You happy now, Hargrove?”

“You have no idea,” Billy gives back, something dangerous in his grin that Steve staunchly ignores. Instead, he shrugs and crosses his arms over his chest again, tipping his head back so he can peek out of the storage room in case any customers show up. Not that they usually do, on cloudy Tuesday nights.

The tell-tale flick of Billy’s lighter draws his attention back to the asshole taking up space in his storage room, and he pulls a face.

“Really?” Steve eyes the joint Billy has suddenly produced from somewhere with disdain—not because it’s a joint, but because this is the storage room of the place where he _works_ , and he’s not sure he can pawn this one off on Robin in the morning. 

Billy just smirks. “Relax, sailor, no one’s ever gonna know.”

And Steve doesn’t _really_ care, not even if it gets him fired. He might embrace it, actually, just to have something _happen_ , for once. The mall has 64 other stores—he counted—one of them is probably hiring if he fucks this one up. And if they aren’t…

Steve watches Billy light up, lips drawn in a thin line, but he doesn’t, exactly, stop him either. He draws his eyes up from the red cherry to Billy’s eyes, finds that he’s staring right back at him, quiet, calculating. Steve flusters despite himself, and Billy just _keeps staring at him_ until he wants to snap at him, but he knows better than that.

Without breaking eye contact, Billy reaches up and Steve holds his breath— and then Billy smacks his little sailor hat off his head.

“I just can’t take you seriously with this thing on,” Billy states finally, then cocks his head to the side as he looks Steve over with much more intensity than the situation calls for, and another grin spreads over his face. “Huh. Still can’t. Guess it wasn’t the hat after all, Harrington.”

Steve sighs put upon, and runs a hand through his mussed up hair. The hat _really_ hasn’t been doing him any favors, but he’s not about to admit that in front of Hargrove, of all people. “You done yet?” He asks, instead, funneling all his annoyance into three words, but Billy ignores it.

Instead—

“I owe you one, right?”

His voice drops low and he steps closer, exhaling around his cigarette, and Steve is incredibly aware that he has nowhere to go, can’t back up any further without sitting on one of the freezers, and, yeah, in these shorts? He’s not keen on accidentally freezing his balls off.

Which— which leaves him with Billy, right _there_ , right in his face, unwavering and unreadable. He wonders what Billy gets out of this, of pulling his proverbial pigtails. High school is over—there’s no crown to be had, no cronies to impress.

Maybe it’s habit, Steve supposes. It’s not like he really knows what to do with his time now, either.

“You do,” he hears himself say, because, yeah, _he does_ , even as his brain shouts at him that indulging Billy is a terrible idea—and how has this turned into _indulging him_ , anyway? 

“I do,” Billy echoes and takes another step closer, and Steve finds himself scooting up onto the freezer a little to keep the distance despite himself, but Billy simply takes it as an invitation to step into the open V of his legs. 

It’s weird, he thinks, how they always pretend like this is _normal_. Like there are any other two boys in their school who behave like this, like Billy pushes into anyone else’s personal space this way and doesn’t let go, like a dog with a bone. 

Steve doesn’t have anything to base his assumption on, but he’s pretty sure Billy doesn’t do this to anyone _else_.

Without taking his eyes off Steve’s for a second—he’s pretty sure neither of them are blinking at this point—Billy reaches up to cup his jaw with one hand, the coarse pad of his thumb brushing his lower lip, and tips his head back.

Steve feels like he should push him off, probably, but he knows it’s going to end in a scramble, knows he’s gonna lose, _knows_ Billy wants a reaction from him, and he staunchly feels like he missed his opportunity to do something about this. 

Instead, he opens his mouth when Billy pulls on his lower lip, uncharacteristically gentle, and then he leans in, his lips not quite touching Steve’s, and exhales into his mouth. Steve inhales the smoke reflexively, before he even knows he’s doing it. And yeah, he chokes on it, a little, and coughs dryly, but it’s not like this is the _first_ time he’s done it, and he’s ready to _defend_ himself—

Billy doesn’t mind, apparently, because he carefully takes another drag, repeats the procedure, and Steve… Steve’s entirely too pliant, and it’s a little embarrassing—a lot embarrassing, okay—but he kinda _likes_ this, and before he knows it, he’s opening his mouth anticipatorily, which, okay, geez, who does that, but—

Instead of more smoke, Billy takes advantage and leans in, licks slow and indulgently into Steve’s mouth, as if he’s chasing the last taste of that pot on his tongue, and Steve doesn’t protest, just grabs the corner of the freezer, white knuckled, so Billy presses closer and _sucks_ on his tongue. And suddenly Steve is incredibly sure he’s light-headed, he’s probably dead—he died, or he’s dreaming, and he can’t tell if this is hell, or heaven, but Billy doesn’t pull back, and Steve can’t help the pathetic little whine he makes, can feel Billy grinning against his lips, and—

“Harrington!” It’s a shout from outside the storage room, Robin’s voice, loud and clear, “I forgot my fucking wallet. Have you seen my wallet?”

Steve nearly jumps out of his skin, but Billy remains a solid fixture in front of him, and _shushes_ him as he trails his thumb over his lower lip. Steve remains frozen, and Billy grins. “There’s a good boy,” he murmurs, and Steve _wants_ to be outraged, wants to tell Billy to go fuck himself, but there must be something lodged in his throat because suddenly he can’t get a single word out.

_“Stevie!”_

Billy grins and leans in once more, a lewdly loud _smooch_ , for god’s sake, then bites down on his lower lip when he does finally pull back, and the noise Steve makes is not as close to a groan as he wants to pretend it is. 

There’s a knowing smirk on Billy’s face as he does, eyes dark. “Yeah. That’s what I thought,” he states, low and dark, before he steps back, his expression unwavering, unreadable as always, until he licks over his lips, and grins, feral. 

With that, Billy pushes out of the storage room. 

“Your boy’s right here,” he tells a confused looking Robin, and, a little frazzled, Steve stumbles out of the storage room behind him, face flushed, his hat forgotten somewhere. 

Robin arches an eyebrow, but wisely doesn’t ask.

Billy barely acknowledges her, instead he turns to Steve, pats the side of his face, once, twice, and has the audacity to fucking _wink_ at him. “See you around, Sailor Steve.” And then he grabs a stack of ice cream cones and runs, laughing when Steve finally reacts, “Hey!” but doesn’t make any move to chase him.

“We’re not fucking even, Hargrove!” He shouts after him, but all he gets is Billy’s cackle and a raised middle finger over his shoulder as he jogs off.

“This guy’s such a freak,” Robin says next to him; Robin, who had the _luxury_ of not going to school with Billy for a year, Robin, who _doesn’t_ get her personal space invaded by a blond mullet and an overabundance of cologne every chance he gets. “Fuck him, right?”

 _Yeah_ , Steve thinks, acutely aware of the heat still rising to his cheeks, the way his heart is still thundering in his chest. _Fuck him._


	2. ‘cause you kissed me in the backseat (tied me down, then threw me in the trunk)

By the time Billy screeches into the parking lot of the arcade, Max looks like she’s about to give herself a migraine from rolling her eyes at him. They’ve come to a tentative truce since last fall; Billy doesn’t give her as much shit as he used to, and in turn they both don’t talk about how either of them came close to murder in the same night. It works, somehow.

Precariously, but it works.

Max pushes the car door open and there’s something at the tip of Billy’s tongue about how he has better things to do on a Friday night, but she shoots him a look and he just shrugs instead. The fact that he’s still in his swim shorts and the Hawkins Pool tank top would paint him a liar, anyway. But it doesn’t matter now.

Few things do.

He watches Max jog up to her weird, ragtag group of friends, standing outside, waiting for her, and with them, of course, none other than Steve Harrington.

They don’t run into each other much, anymore. Billy doesn’t run into most kids from school anymore, not with regularity, not unless they drop by the public pool, and why would he? They have their own schedules, they don’t have to see each other anymore, and really, it suits Billy just fine.

He hadn’t planned on running into Steve at the mall, either— it had been an unexpected perk, and everything after, well…

Maybe it had been stupid. _Impulsive_ , definitely. But what does it matter, now?

Steve looks up as the kids head inside, and he catches Billy’s eye— and maybe Billy has given himself away, too, considering he hasn’t immediately revved the engine and hightailed it out of there already. Instead he watches Steve as he glances around the parking lot once, twice, then casually makes his way over to Billy’s driver side window and just stands there until he finally leans down, puts one hand on the half open window and looks Billy in the eye.

“What do you want, Harrington?” Billy asks, coolly. 

Steve’s eyes flit to the side, and he licks his lips; he looks nervous, and Billy watches the way his Adam’s apple moves when he swallows, but his gaze is steady when he meets his eyes.

“Spare me a smoke?” Steve asks, so casually it has to be put on, and Billy takes a moment to eye him, and then another moment longer, just to see if he will flinch. He doesn’t.

Instead, Steve only moves to step back when Billy reaches for the door handle so he can push it open, leaves him room so he can step outside, and he does. He fishes a crumpled pack of cigarettes from the breast pocket of his jean jacket, and holds it out to Steve.

Steve takes one, then raises an eyebrow at Billy until he reaches out to light his cigarette. He doesn’t dwell on how intimate the moment feels. It’s not who he is. Not who they are.

They stand in silence for a few moments. “So…” Harrington starts, trails off, unsure what to say, it seems, and Billy scoffs.

They don’t small talk. They have never small talked. 

“ _So_ , what? _Come here often?_ ” He mocks, and tips his head back as he lets out a plume of smoke and watches it unfurl above his head. “What do you _want_?”

From the corner of his eye, he can see Harrington rolling his eyes. He doesn’t know what’s going on in his head--does he think they’re friendly, now, after their mall tête-à-tête? 

Steve huffs out a lungful of smoke. “Do you have to be such a dick all the time or are you ever off the clock?”

Billy snorts. “Do _you_ have to be such a goody two shoes all the time? I’m surprised they even let you out without your uniform today.” He raises an eyebrow, slowly giving Steve a once over, “Don’t have a special boy scout one when you’re sitting the losers?”

“Yeah, but it shrunk in the wash, and I wouldn’t wanna give your little lifeguard shorts a run for their money,” Harrington shoots back, checking him out from the corner of his eyes, unimpressed.

Another drag of his cigarette and he watches the smoke curl above their heads. Billy finds himself getting bored of this, and fast. “There a point to this?” 

He doesn’t actually give him time to respond, instead he’s on him in a flash, quick enough to startle Harrington into dropping his cigarette, blinking at him wide-eyed only for a second when he’s pushed right into his space, edged against the wall. 

The silence is tense, and they both just stare at each other. 

Any other guy would have decked him by now, but here they are, Steve backed against the backdoor of the arcade, Billy so close he can feel the heat radiate off the other boy, and Steve doesn’t seem anything but calm. 

“What do you _want_ , Harrington?” He repeats, pointedly, again, and maybe third time _is_ charm, because Steve’s gaze flicks down to Billy’s lips, and Billy thinks, _oh_. He presses even closer, close enough he can feel every breath Steve’s taking, but he doesn’t go any further, just waits.

It doesn’t take long for Steve to react. “ _Hargrove_ ,” Harrington’s tone somehow manages to toe the line between whiny and annoyed, and Billy wonders for a second if that’s an inherent trait of the spoiled and pretty, or just this spoiled and pretty boy in particular.

“You seem a little tense,” Billy tells him, a grin already spreading over his face, close enough, now, that his breath is ghosting over Steve’s neck, drops his voice, “Are the bitches not lining up anymore for Sailor Steve?” He can feel Steve tremble, ever so slightly, and god, it’s so _delicious_ he can’t resist for another second; he darts his tongue out, drags it wet and hot up the side of his neck, and he hears Steve sigh on an exhale, and-- 

And then it catches him off-guard, the way Steve straightens his back, fists both hands into his tank top, and no way does Steve have the kind of strength to muscle him around, not usually, but he’s surprised just a second long enough for Steve to turn them around and get Billy pressed against the brick wall of the arcade instead.

“Man, you talk entirely too _fucking_ much,” Harrington hisses, and it makes Billy bark out a dry laugh, until the sound is swallowed up because Steve leans in, presses his lips to Billy’s with no semblance of tenderness, and it knocks the air out of him.

He’s surprised, but he can’t say he isn’t _pleased_ as punch every time he gets a rise out of Harrington, gets him to push back, and this? This might take the cake just yet. 

Steve falters, a little, when Billy doesn’t immediately react, and he finally snaps out of it, gets one hand into Steve’s hair so he can’t pull back, keeps him right where he is.

Harrington makes a noise that feels close to a sigh, and it puts a grin on his face, makes him bolder as he slots his leg between Steve’s thighs, presses his other hand to the small of his back. Harrington doesn’t disappoint; leans into it, body pressed so close it’s giving Billy all kinds of ideas two guys shouldn’t follow through on in public, especially not in small town Indiana, but—

Steve bites his lower lip and it startles a moan out of him, makes him grip his hair even tighter. There’s a gasp and it could have been either of them when Harrington rocks his hips against Billy’s thighs, and he thinks, for a split second, how he didn’t see _this_ coming, but hell, there are worse places to be in Hawkins, Indiana, than pressed against a cool brick wall with King fuckin’ Steve’s lips on his. 

There’s no telling how much time passes before Harrington pulls back, drops his head to catch his breath. Billy pulls sharply on his hair lest he get too comfortable, and Harrington hisses, glares at him, and Billy just meets him with a grin. 

“This how you treat all the boys, King Steve?” He whispers huskily, and Harrington rolls his eyes. 

“ _Entirely_ too much,” he repeats himself, and Billy smirks, opens his mouth for a retort—

_“You _intentionally_ bumped into me, or I would have had your high score!”_ It’s the slamming of the arcade doors followed by Lucas’s angry voice that makes Harrington jerk back, and Billy has hated those tiny dicks many times, but right this moment, he _really_ wants them to take a long walk off a short pier. _“Yeah, that’s bullshit and you know it,”_ Max’s voice follows, and he can tell she’s smug, and he wants her to take that walk right after Lucas.

“Saved by the bell, huh?” Billy murmurs, low and a little rough, half-lidded eyes trained on Harrington’s profile as the guy watches for the twerps to round the corner, but he doesn’t expect him to snap back to him, a glint in his eyes and a smirk playing on his lips. “You or me, Hargrove?”

Harrington wets his lips, flicks his gaze at the corner, just waiting for the kids to round it. “The quarry. Sunday, nine o’clock,” he tells him, whisper-low, and it’s not a question—and hell if that doesn’t stir something inside of him. He meets Steve’s eyes with an intrigued smirk, places his hands flat on his chest--

And gives him a solid enough shove to send him stumbling backwards, just in time for the curly haired twerp to round the corner and shriek out a scandalized, “Hey!”

Max glares at him, and Billy casts Steve a look before he raises his hands in mock surrender. “Don’t worry, we’re done here.”

Steve smooths down his hair, where Billy still had his fingers buried moments earlier and it makes him itch to reach out again, and levels him with a look. “For now.”

\--

Two days feel like an eternity and like the blink of an eye at the same time. Billy’s room isn’t big enough to pace, but he does it anyway, changes his shirt twice, dapples cologne behind his ears, on his neck, then paces some more.

There’s no way he’s going to show up on time, not on Harrington’s terms, that’s not how he rolls, and he’s going to establish some ground rules here—Billy Hargrove doesn’t play by anyone else’s rules, and if Harrington hasn’t figure that out yet, well…

Billy smooths his locks behind his ear, tips his head to the side so his ear ring catches the light, and nods at the mirror. He’s not nervous. Billy Hargrove doesn’t _do_ nervous, no matter what the flutter in his stomach says.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

Neil’s voice cuts through his thoughts. Billy’s spine goes rigid, tips his chin up at the sudden appearance of his father in the doorway, he meets his eye without hesitation. It takes him a second to respond, still.

“I was going to meet a friend at—”

“And shirk your brotherly responsibilities?” Neil cuts him off, and Billy furrows his brows, looks confused for long enough that Susan sees it fit to speak up behind his him, “I think I might have forgotten to tell him, Neil—” Her voice is small, but his father just raises a hand without taking his eyes off Billy and she goes quiet.

“It doesn’t matter, right?” He asks, terse, “Susan and I are going to the movies tonight. Maxine has homework to do, so Billy will stay in and look after her. _Right_?”

Billy remembers the last time he failed to pay attention to Max. Remembers everything that came after with startling clarity, too. Remembers seeing red.

Remembers those bambi eyes.

So Billy nods. Pretends Neil can’t tell the color is draining from his face.

“Yes, sir. Of course.”

\--

It isn’t until Wednesday that they cross paths again, and Billy pretends not to dwell on it, the what-ifs, the Steve Harrington and his Beemer at the quarry.

Did he wait up for him? Did he think Billy had stood him up?

He shakes his head of his thoughts, trails after Max who keeps sending him dirty looks over her shoulder as she makes her way through the mall. He’s told her he wants to make sure she isn’t up to no good, and it’s definitely not that he needed an excuse to show up at Scoops Ahoy without looking suspicious.

Max huffs her annoyance, radiating off her with every stomping step she takes, and she only stops slumping when she rounds the corner to the ice cream shop where the rest of the twerps are already waiting. They light up when they see her—then they spot Billy, and their faces fall immediately. 

Billy smirks. It’s satisfying to know he still has that effect on them. 

“Why did you bring him?” Lucas asks in a harsh whisper the second she joins their table, not half as inconspicuous as he thinks he is, and Max rolls her eyes. “He _wanted_ to come! It’s a public mall, what was I supposed to do?”

It doesn’t matter. He aims a sneer at Lucas nonetheless, satisfied when the kid pulls his lips into a thin line and shuts up.

He never doubted that Harrington would be here--it’s a guarantee if the kids are here, because everyone knows he sneaks them free samples and discounts, just one of the things Max had blabbed on and on about the first time he had picked her up from the mall.

Steve, behind the counter, pulls a similar face as Lucas when he spots Billy, the set of his eyes hard, and Billy pretends he can’t feel that in his stomach. Pretends he doesn’t care.

He _doesn’t_ care.

“Evening, sailor,” he says instead, plasters on the smarmiest grin he can manage, leans heavily on one elbow onto the glass counter between Harrington and him. He looks unimpressed, and Billy lays it on thicker. “Come here often?”

Harrington and those big expressive bambi eyes of his look like dying might be preferential to this situation. It’s a look he’s not entirely unused to from the other guy, it’s just not necessarily the reaction he wants this time. 

“Can I _help_ you?” Steve asks, annoyance written all over his face, and Billy raises an eyebrow at him.

“I think you’re supposed to say ‘ahoy.’”

“I think you’re supposed to fuck off,” Harrington gives back, and Billy just grins.

“Is that how you treat all customers? I’ll have to put in a complaint with management.” 

Harrington doesn’t humor him, and he _hates_ it. Instead Steve absently watches the kids for a few long moments, and when he turns back to Billy, the heavy set of his eyes is back. 

“What do _you_ want, Hargrove?” He asks, voice dropped low, and he glances back at the kids for a second; he assumes to check whether they’re paying attention, but Billy has his eyes trained on Harrington alone. 

He doesn’t know what answer he wants from him, what he expects. He licks his lips, cocks his head to the side. “What do you think I want, Harrington?”

“You know. I know guys like you, Hargrove,” Harrington tells him, expression blank, bordering on annoyed, maybe, “You’re all talk until it’s time to show up.”

It’s a bold-faced lie—if anyone in this town knows Billy doesn’t back down, doesn’t pull his punches, it’s Harrington, but something about the way he says it, cool, collected, _challenging_ , gets right under his skin and his nostrils flare with the effort of keeping his cool in public.

“You’ve _never_ known a guy like me, Harrington,” Billy all but hisses, close enough now that no one else will be able to overhear, but the challenge in Steve’s eyes tells him it doesn’t have the desired effect.

“Step up or shut up, Hargrove,” he tells him drily, like he’s getting _bored_ of this conversation, and it makes Billy want to reach across the counter, fist his hand in his hair and pull him right to his face, but he doesn’t, just runs his tongue across his teeth as he stares Harrington down. 

Harrington doesn’t even blink. “It’s been great as always, Hargrove. Can’t wait to do this again, but I gotta get going here.” Listless, like he has better things to do, and it sets Billy’s teeth on edge.

“The public pool,” Billy catches himself say, before he’s thought it through completely, and Steve halts, narrows his eyes at him.

“What about it?” He sounds suspicious. Probably has every right to, Billy thinks.

“I close up tomorrow. Five on the clock,” he tells him, quiet enough the kids won’t overhear, but they’re making a ruckus anyway and Harrington just blinks at him. 

“What, so you can stand me up again?” He asks, unimpressed, and Billy rolls his eyes in turn.

“I _work_ there,” he tells him, like he’s a little slow on the uptake maybe, and when Harrington doesn’t react, he adds, “Like you’re important enough I’d skip my work shift to avoid you?”

Harrington just holds his gaze, suspicion still written all over his pretty face, until Billy’s got enough of it, taps his knuckles on the glass of the ice cream display.

“Five o’clock, Harrington, don’t make me wait,” he repeats before he turns around, calm, cool, collected in all the ways he doesn’t feel, and walks away.

Behind him, he hears Dustin say, “What did that guy even _want_ from you, Steve?” and imagines Harrington shrugging, only barely hears him say, “Fuck if I know, Henderson. Fuck if I know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...I am very bad at letting one-shots stay one-shots, so. This is happening. Un-betaed, and I'm sure I'll catch a few more mistakes when I re-read this tomorrow, but. Thank you for all your lovely feedback!  <33

**Author's Note:**

> how did i end up in this sandbox?? _oh yeah, that damn season 3 preview._ and i enjoy these two so much i guess this might turn into a series. oops. 
> 
> comments keep me alive, sooo. thank you for reading! <3


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